


December 8th, In Which John Goes Christmas Shopping

by Thette



Series: A December Tale [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas Presents, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01 AU, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/pseuds/Thette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes shopping for Christmas presents.</p>
<p>The third in a series of loosely connected stories about December 2010, written between series 1 and 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 8th, In Which John Goes Christmas Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: awahlbom, melaszka, sheffsfic
> 
> Based on [i_know_its_0ver](http://i-know-its-0ver.livejournal.com/)'s Christmas fics, [Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/947924.html) and [Merry Christmas, Dr Watson](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/1117433.html). Gift ideas used with permission.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://rosemaryfic.livejournal.com/7883.html) on December 8th 2010.

It had been a trying day at the surgery. Early December meant people with the flu, and people who were worried they were starting to come down with the flu, when they really just had a bad cold. Go home, take care of yourself, take something for the symptoms, come back if you get any worse, do you need a doctor's certificate for work? A case of pneumonia, a case of depression, a twisted ankle, a corticosteroid injection in the shoulder, a minor wound to suture, and a teenager who probably had coeliac disease. Whatever Sherlock said, it wasn't all kids with sniffles in general practice. He wasn't the only one who was overqualified, either. One of his colleagues was a surgeon who had switched careers and was working part-time as a GP since the osteoarthritis in his hands had made a full-time job in the operating theatre and A&E impossible.  
  
Work, and then Christmas shopping. At least he wasn't grocery shopping for an ungrateful Sherlock. Since his circle of, well, not friends, exactly, but people he liked, had expanded enormously since last year, it would be a great deal more difficult to find gifts this year. At least, he still had Sherlock's card. No wonder people thought they were a couple, when he paid all the bills, did all the shopping, cleaning, cooking and social duties, and Sherlock provided the money. In the week that had passed since The Incident at the Restaurant, none of them had mentioned his unfortunate habit again. They had settled down again in their frankly domestic routine. (Domestic, in a sense in which nobody else had ever used the word before, he was sure. Body parts in the fridge and poison in the sugar bowl were part of their routine.)  
  
On his way down Oxford Street, he passed Waterstone's. He wasn't much of a reader himself, but he occasionally indulged in a trashy thriller or detective novel, much to Sherlock's dismay. It was a guilty pleasure he shared with Lestrade, and they had talked about their favourites over a few pints. Lestrade hadn't tried the Millennium Trilogy, and John had decided he needed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo for Christmas.  
  
And there, right in front of him, was the perfect present for Anderson. He took his phone out and sent Sherlock a quick text.  
  
 _Am Christmas shopping. Have found the perfect present for Anderson._  
  
Seconds later, his mobile chimed.  
  
 _WHAT?  
  
SH_  
  
He giggled at the all caps message, snapped a photo of Forensics for Dummies and sent the message to Sherlock.  
  
 _That is more than a bit not good. I approve. Keep using my card.  
  
SH_  
  
He smiled at Sherlock. Of course he knew. It still felt good to know he was allowed to do some proper Christmas shopping.  
  
Debenhams was the next destination. Mrs Hudson would get that very nice cardigan in plum with tasteful gold detailing, he decided. Connie Prince would approve of the colours. A toy for Toby would go down well with Molly. She'd become even more shy in the months since she found out about Jim, but she kept being nice to Sherlock for some reason. John didn't think it was because she still had a crush on him, she should be over that by now.  
  
 _Get packet of Jammie Dodgers, good radiology textbook, silver/ruby earrings with celtic knots and a set of black and red lace lingerie in size 36 C.  
  
SH_  
  
Who could Sherlock possibly want to give lingerie to? The biscuits, he understood.  
  
 _If you're ruining Mycroft's diet, why not do it in style? Lindt pralines?_  
  
Because the Holmes brothers wouldn't call a halt to their "childish feud" even for Christmas. Not that he had expected them to.  
  
 _Of course. More effective that way.  
  
SH_  
  
The earrings were the most difficult to find, but he managed to get a pair he thought Sherlock would like. Then there was Sally, of course. She liked fishing, that's was why she had suggested it to him as a hobby. He had joined her for a quiet afternoon by a country river once, but his hand wouldn't stop shaking. She had laughed at his adrenaline addiction, and they had gone to the pub instead. Some nice lures, perhaps?  
  
But what to get for Sherlock? What could someone who regarded everything physical as mere transport want for Christmas? He would probably appreciate some supplies for his experiments, but that felt too cold and impersonal. His clothes were far too expensive and stylish for John to afford, and clothes also lacked that personal touch. He didn't like films or music, except the classical pieces he played on the violin.  
  
Suddenly, inspiration struck. John knew what to get for both Sarah and Sherlock, he just needed some help first.  
  
 _Hi, how about teaching me how to knit on our film night this Saturday?_  
  
Sarah replied almost instantly.  
  
 _Anytime, John. BTW, heard about Bea. I'm sorry. *hugs* Do you want some comfort food?_  
  
Bless her. Her caring friendship made him feel warm inside.  
  
 _No, thanks. Don't need it. I get by with a little help from my friends._  
  
It might be a cliche, but it was true. He was so very lucky to have made two good friends this year. Sherlock was perhaps not the kind of friend he could have a sobbing session with after a break-up, but Sarah was. Not that he felt the need to cry this time. It was mutual. He just wanted to whinge about his life a bit.  
  
 _OK. Saturday at 3, see you! :-)_  
  
John deleted the entire conversation. Sherlock could come snooping at any time, or use his phone for texting just because his own was out of reach. He had to shop for his two best friends on Saturday. Cash, of course, and delete the receipts. He wondered if there would be any more evidence he would have to get rid of.  
  
Arms full of shopping bags, including the big one with the wrapping paper that kept poking him in the face, he prepared to waddle back to Baker Street. He barely had time to get outside, when a conspicuous black car slowed down beside him. He rolled his eyes. The muscled driver opened the door. After studying the interior (he was very careful about that since Moriarty had kidnapped him) and seeing Mycroft's assistant, he took a seat. "Good. I could do with a lift home." She smiled vacantly at him and kept hammering away at her BlackBerry. "Who are you today?"  
  
"Uhm... Ananke." Her changing names was all he ever knew about her, despite having tried for almost a year to engage her in conversation. He'd never met anyone with such an ironclad reserve. The names, however, told a story. He'd learnt that after the Xanthippe episode.  
  
"A lot to do at work, then?" She looked at him briefly with a tilted head and then turned back to her texting. "Of course you can't tell me, I knew that. Is there a reason for the convenient offer of a lift?"  
  
She pulled a thick cream envelope from the inside pocket of her jacket. It was still warm, and if he hadn't given up on her right after their second meeting, he'd smell it to see if any of her scent still lingered on it. "I have a letterbox, you know. At my flat. There's a perfectly good postal service in this country."  
  
"You have a letterbox at the flat you share with Sherlock Holmes. This letter is for you personally."  
  
"Thanks.... I think." The car pulled to a stop outside 221B, and he manoeuvred the bags inside. Why had Mycroft sent him a letter, he wondered. Meddling again, probably. He studied the envelope. The paper was heavy, and his name and title was written in copperplate handwriting in black ink. Pursing his lips in irritation, he ripped it open.  
  
 _Mycroft Holmes requests the pleasure of Doctor John Watson's presence at the Christmas celebrations at Holmes Manor, Wealden, East Sussex at three o'clock on the 24th December._  
  
What the hell? What kind of bizarre game were they up to? Did Mycroft want an audience for the Christmas dinner? He didn't even include an RSVP, but then again, it was Mycroft. He probably knew whether or not you'd come. And "Manor", seriously? No matter how much or how long he tried, he'd never understand the Holmeses. He crumpled the letter and stuffed it in his left coat pocket.  
  
Upstairs, Sherlock had claimed the kitchen table for his microscope and tissue samples. That left John with the coffee table for his wrapping duties. He started with the books, and wrote the notes in his neatest italic. "From John and Sherlock", of course. Wrapping presents was almost meditative, after the rush of the Christmas shopping crowd. He let his mind wander, far from thoughts of sibling rivalry. The straight lines of the wrapping paper, the ribbon tied tightly around, the complementing colours... Suddenly, he became aware of Sherlock, who was gazing intently at his flatmate's hands. "You have had a lot of practice," he said.  
  
"I used to work in a shop during the run-up to Christmas" Sherlock shuddered at the mere thought. "Hey, it was relatively easy money. Wrapping was one of the cushier jobs. No snotty kids to herd and very little customer contact. Who's the radiology book for?"  
  
"Ethelwynne."  
  
"Here, you write that note." He carried on wrapping. "The earrings?"  
  
"Hypatia."  
  
"Is that with an sh or a ch?"  
  
Sherlock's side glance was full of scorn. "It's with a t."  
  
"Ah, OK. What about the underwear?"  
  
"Heather. Do you need help spelling her name, too?"  
  
"Don't be silly."  
  
Sherlock fetched a book from his room. "This is for Matlock."  
  
"What, The Anarchist's Cookbook?"  
  
"Yes, my annotated copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook. There's no reason he should repeat my mistakes." John tried to imagine just what kind of mistakes Sherlock had made with the recipes in that book, and decided he preferred ignorance. "Did you get anything for Harry and Clara? They're back together. I think it would be appropriate to give them a joint present."  
  
"Wait, what?"  
  
"A Christmas present for your sister and her civil partner. Or wife, if you prefer the colloquial terminology."  
  
"No, I don’t mean that. How do you know they're back together?" John was always concerned about his sibling, a trait he was ashamed to share with Mycroft. Harry and Clara's possible reunion could be the best thing that had ever happened to his alcoholic sister, or it could be a train wreck of epic proportions.  
  
"Based on their internet activity. Harry hasn’t been commenting on your blog posts or your Facebook. Clara has been avoiding you both on Facebook. It's obvious they're not talking about it in public yet, and want to avoid lying."  
  
"I'm not convinced. I'll think about a present, OK?" He decided to get something that they would both like for their home if they were back together, something that Harry wouldn't mind receiving just for herself if Sherlock was wrong. It happened.  
  
"John...?" Sherlock's voice was unusually hesitant. "I hope you understand that gifts with both our names on them could be construed as evidence that we are a couple."  
  
"Yeah, I thought about that. And you know, I don't care anymore. After the restaurant..."  
  
"People might talk." The wry grin on Sherlock's face was a real treat. John met his eyes, and gave him a wide grin in return.  
  
"People do little else."


End file.
